Slit gwmft gaWHfl mtr, Poaiamo eyeey Wednesday by 11. G. SHlin A CO. H. G, Smith. A. J. STSivuAir TERMS—Two Dollars por annum, payable In all oases In advanoe. Tan Lancaster Daily iittelliqshtosb Is pabllshod every evening, Sunday excepted, at $5 por Annum In advance. OFFlCE—Southwest oobhxs 'of Ckxtri B^UARK. Ifoetsij. FITS O’CLUOU IS TK F.MOUSING The new lay gUtt'-rlDg o'er the grass, A mist lay over the brook, At the earliest beam of the golden sun, The swallow her nest lor book. The snowy blooms of tnc hawthorn tiee, Lay thick y the ground adorning, The birds were singing In every buuh At live o'clock In the morning, Tho birds were singing In every bush At live o’clock in morning. And Bessie, the milkmaid, merrily sang, For the meadows were fresh and fair, The breez? of the mornlua kies d her brow. And played wnh her uut brown hair. But oft she turn’d and looked around As If the silence scorning, 'Twas time for tho mower t > whet .his scythe. At five o'clock In the morning ’Twati .lme for tho mower to whet his scythe, At live o'clock in ti,o xn>.rnmg. And the meadows the mowers came, And merry th lr voices rang. And one among thrm weudeu his way, To where th • milkmaid'saug. And as he llDgaf’-’-py her t-lde, ’DeSiilte his comrades W/irulug, The old, old story was told ugatn,, °At five o'clock >n tho inornlm;. The old, old siory was told again, At five o'clock In the morning UlteccUancm The Courtyard uf Ours d’Or, HY MISS TiIAt'KKKAY On a hot August morning, inaqualot old Flemish city, the sun shone bright ly into the courtyard of the Ours d’Or. Early in tho morning the buq had vainly tried to creep in through the low-browed arch that gave entrance to tho Inu from the little Place outside ; but it could not succeed in reaching farther than midway up the broad vaulted passage, which had Cloraenee’a parlor and her father’s counting house on tiie left, and the kitchen on the right. The sunshine, however, had no mind to be bullied by the whim of the old gray stones, soon climbed .high enough to peep over the quaint roofs of the rambling building, and poured thence an intense glow of golden warmth Into the courtyard at the end of the passage. The plash plash of a little fountain tinkled merrily in ihe.suddeu brilliance, gold lish darted to the surface of the water to warm themselves, and the leaves of tire tree fuchsias round and about showed prism dyed through the sparkling water drops. It was only a small square court, plauted iiUe a garden, and overlooked on three sides by the inn windows. It was bordered by rustic arbors, with vlues clambering over them ; in these of afternoons pipes were smoked, and beer and coffee drank by round faced Belgians. J ust now all was as fresh and well ordered as if no one hut the gar dener had access there. Canaries hung in the.so arbors. They sang out loudly as the sunshine gilded tflhelr cages. But lor the noisy birds and a few pea cock hutteifllea darting their glowing colors in and o'ut among the tall fuchsia*,- the courtyard basked in the sunshine lu its own still fashion. The small round paving stones grew hotter ami hotter till the spray of the fountain dried as it reached them. It seemed a scene waiting for an actor to move across it. There was a glass door between the two arbors that faced the arched pas sage ; it opened, and old Madame de Vos came forward iuto the courtyard. “ Tieus, tiens! it is a heat to stifle.” The old woman waddled across to the shade of the passage ns fast as she could, pulling the large bond of her straigbtly lulling black cl,nak over her primly quilled cap, till she left visible only the snowy muslin strings. “ Elodie, Kindle! w!u n-, im.*u, is Ma demoiselle ?” No ans w.cn-wiiting, Madame at) vanned to the kitchen door. Itstood open, and through It glowed a dull red heat, worse than the blaze of the court yard, for this heat reflected itself again with interest from the bra a pans ami pots and kettles gUtte/mg in every corner. luside ibis kitchen all things shone hotly except Elodie s f.ice ; a pale, thin countenance on asmali,erect body. She wore just the same'sort of snowy cap that Madame de Vos did, tied under her peaked chin; but here all likeness ended. Tho bulky dauie who filled up the doorway would have made four of the slight, active cuisiuiere of the Ours d’Or. “ Pouf! \£as there eversuch a heat ?” Flatfaced,’pink Madamo do Vos turned up her blue eyes as if they, too, suffered. “'Madame lias no need to come into it,” Elodie spoke gravely over one shoulder,and went ou trussing her fowls. “Where is Mamselle Clemence? I wivo ther.” . “ Hero I am; bonne mauian ! What wilt thou ?” Opposite the kitchen were three en trances to tlie house : the largest, that in the centre, (Opened into the inn itself; on each side of it were Monsieur’s counting houseand Mademoiselle’s par lor. Clemence’s voice came from this last doorway. *• Come to me, child ; and then Elcrdie can hear the news at the same time. Ah, ma foi! that all the affairs of the family should be thrust on my shoul ders!” At the word “news,” Klodle turned rouud sharply. Her sunken grey eyes were full of eager interest, aud aa Ciem euce crossed over a soft Hush had risen on her cheek, and a glad dancing light sparkled in the large, thoughtful eyes. A minute ago you would scarcely have called Clemence pretty; she wus too pale* anil her gray eyes had wanted col or till the blush on her cheek made them glow. “The Stour Marie, thy aunt at Bruges, is iJ 1, and the Superior asks that one of her people should goto the Hospice with speed. It would Kill me, as thou knowest, Clemence, to travel with such a heat; besides, how cou'd I quit the Ours d’Or when thy father is not there? It is thou, Clemence, who must obey this summons.” The liquid eyes drooped, the soft col or faded ; for a moment the girl stood silent, her lips parted, her hands clasp ed together. “ Well ?” This came very impatient-' ly from Madame. “ Bonne mnman !”—the warm blood came rushing into C.emeuce’s face and the words were spoken quick ly,—“l cannot go; thou knowest why I wish to slay at home. Louis said- to-day or to morrow, he may arrive at any moment, aud I—l have not seen him for so long. Why cannot Rosalie go to Bruges?” “ Rosalie ! Rosalie is a child ; of what use to send her?” “But we are not sent for to be use ful,” Clemence pleaded, her tender, wistful eyes fixed ou her grandmother’s stolid face. ‘The good scours love the aunt too well to yield any careof her to a Btrauger ; it is only that she may see one of her own people again. Bonoe maman, I have not seen la tante Marie for so —so long, she will not recognize me. Rosalie has not left her these five years,—she loves Rosalie,—send her, bonne maman ; how could I be absent when Louis arrives ?” The sweet, imploring voice might have touched Madame de Vos’s heart through all the pink, fat whicheuvel opedit, but that she hated contradiction; and also for the reason that Clemence had looked while she spoke more than ever like her dead mother. There was the same slender bending figure, the same trausparent skin and dark hair, and, above all, that strange earn estness in the eyes, aud resolute fervent spirit which had in days gone by so bewildered Madame when she looked at her son’s wife. For Madame de Vos came of a pure Flemish stock—physique and morale were alike solid aud stolid. In her family no one had ever been slender, or poor, or dark haired ; and she had felt herself aggrieved when Auguste de Vos, her eldest son,—the landlord of the flourishing Ours d’Or, — had married Clemence de Trudin, the orphan daughter of a poor French gen tleman. What could he expectof such a trans parent, ' unusual looking creature but that which had come to pass ? For ODly a, year ago the younger Madame de Vos bad died of decline : a disease mainly caused, so said her mother-in-law, by a dislike of e&tiDg and drinking and a She died, and left her sorrowing, idolizing husband with four children. Clemence was twenty-two, and it seemed to Auguste de Vos that she could take her mother’s place in the management of her two little brothers; but before be could rouse himself to settle anything be got an imperative summons to visit his mother atLouvain. “Ofwhatcanst thou be thinking then, (Eljc Jntclligcncci: VOLUME TO Auguste?” she had asked. “Is not Clemence fiancee to the Lieutenant Louis Scherer ? and who shall say how soon he may purchase bis discharge,and come home and marry her? and then, ma fol, what will happen? and the child Rosalie so beautiful and but six teen years old ? Will it be convenable, I ask thee, my son. to bring up such a child in the Ours d’Or wbh no better mentor than Elodie ? Bah—that is what it is to be a man !” When a man has loved his wife dear ly—.go dearly that life and everything belonging to it have lost all interest or flavor without her, —he is easily man aged ; and Auguste de Vos. after a few more material harangues, began to see that it might be well for his girls that their grandmother should come to the Ours a’Or. Naturally he did not call to mind bis mothers faults; they had met seldom since his marriage; and his wife had rarely grieved him by re peating the petty unkindnesses she bad endured during tbe old lady’s visits. — For Madame de Vos had never forgiven the dark-eyed gentle wife her waut of fortune; and now, as she looked at Clemence, the old dislike grew strong,—a dislike which had been in tensified by her son’s blind devotion to bis wife. “Just like her mother! ” and then aloud and severely, “ Clemence, you speak follies; you are the eldest, and you must go.”’ “And why does any one go?” said' Elodie, standing erect, with her hands behind her. “The patron will be home to-night; he will go in the morning to Bruges, and he will take Mamseile Ro salie, and she can stay with tho Smur Marie; there, it is settled.” “But no; thou art not a mother, Elodie ; thou canst not comprehend the feeliugaof a mother. My daughter, my Marie, must not be kept waiting for the selfishness of a love sick girl. Fi done, Clemence, when I was young, my lovers came after me; they waited my pleasure, I did not wait for them. I am ashamed of thee.” Clemence kept back a hasty answer, but her eyes flushed. The old lady walked away to the parlor. “It is too unjust, too hard; if my father were but at home!” The words were Baid to herself, but Elodie read them iu her face. She put her lean brown hand tenderly on the young girl’s shoulder. “Go, my child, it is better ; the bonne niamun could go herself as to that; we can do without her; but if the Scour Marie should be worse, thou wouldst then sorrow at not having obeyed the summons, Goatouce; who knows but that thou mayest come back this eve ning?” But tho savor of the various stew pans on the charcoal stoves within warned Elodie that she must return to her duties; and besides, in her heart, the cuisiuiere thought her young mis tress’s anxiety excessive “Alious,” she said, cheerfully; “Mon sieur Louis will not arrive to day, I am sure of it; the sooner thou art gone, my child, the sooner home.” And she went back to the stew pans. Plash—plash, went the jewelled drops of the fountain, the canaries sang loudly, the gold fish seemed to be listening, for they came to tbe top of the water and opened their wide mouths as if to say “Bravo!” Tbe glass door opened again, but this time it was not Madame de Vos who came out into the sunshine. It was a fair, rounded, well grown maiden, with golden hair wreathed in abuudautplaits —a very sweet and blooming creature, —the bloom and sweetness of seventeen, that indescribable charm of youth which fades so quickly; which a few hours of sunshine withers out of spring flowers. The tender, soft blue eyes, the delicate, peach tinted cheeks, the smooth, flue texture of the white throat, the firm, rosy lips, as told of youth in its first freshness, and in Rosalie de Vos, of youth conscious of its own beauty and eager to try its power. “ It la nice to be at home for good,” she said, and she sat herself down in one of the arbors. “ Why, I was only twelve when I went to Bruges; home is net so dull as our convent, but oh ! it might be much better lhau it is. Why should our rooms be shut off from the rest of the house, and why does Clem ence say I miy never come out hero after one o’clock ? it is triste to be shut up with bonne inaman and Clemence.” She yawned. It was too hot to stir out of the arbor, or she would have crossed over to the passage so as to look out into the Place. “Mo foi, it is triste; at the convent I had my tasks, and they filled up time; it is all very well for Clemence, sbe who has a lover, ami she is twenty three! I wonder what kind of a lover he is to marry so old a fiancee ? he must be ugly or stupid.” The salle-e manger lay beyond the kitenen detached from the rest of the house, and could only be entered through the courtyard. The clock struck one, aDd a sound of voices came up the arched passage. “What does it matter?” thought Rosalie; “Clemence is away, and my Lather too. I will amuse myself to-day ; gratulmamma never scolds me ; the trellis screens me; lean see aud lam not seen.” The dinner-bell pealed loudly, and in trooped guests with hungry faces, some from the iun, others from the town, for the table-d’hote of the Ours d Or had a reputation. Alphouse, the stout head-waiter, ask ed the oldest of the guests tp preside in the ab3euce of his muster, and then pro ceedod to compound the salad-dressing with calm solemnity. The windows of the salle looked into the court, and Alphouse stood facing them. Just as he was pulling hisfiuish ing stroke, the vinegar, he started so suddenly thatau extraspoouful, atleast, flowed into the thick yellow cream of which he was so proud. No wonder Alphouse started. With such a dmner on table as no other inn in the town could boast, an individual, a militaire, too, by his walk, instead of coming into the salle as fast as possible, —for oue course at least was seryed,— was deliberately crossing the courtyard towards one of the arbors. It was incredible; but in the mean time the salad was ruined. Rosalie saw the stranger too, and she blushed. It was p.eaaant to feel that sbs was more attractive than the savory fumes issuing from the open French windows of the 9alJe But when the visitor came up to her he bowed and begged pardon. “I could not distinguish through the leaves, Mademoiselle. I mistook, you for Mademoiselle deV^s.” He bowed, begged pardon over again, and retreated. Rosalie was vexed. “How comes be to know Clemence, Iwondor? How handsome he is! He has come to see our father on business, and Elodie has referred him to Clem ence ; and yet"—she knitted her pretty eye brows —“Elodie knows that my sister has gone to Bruges. 1 must go and tell grandmamma.” She was not daring enough to cross the court-yard in full view of the salle, so she passed in through the glasß doors, up a back stair case leading to the family sleeping rooms, and then down another which led her to the parlor. “Bonne maman—” here Rosalie stopped; the handsome stranger sat talking to her grandmother. “Aha, Monsieur Louis! this is our Rosalie, the flower of our house. Rosalie, my well-beloved, this is Monsieur Scherer.” And the old lady looked from the handsome soldier to the blushing maiden. “Ma foi, what a fine couple they would make ! ” said she to herself. Louis Scherer thought his future sis ter-in-law was pretty indeed, and his looks said so. The old lady smiled ap provingly, and patted Rosalie’s soft pink haDd as the girl stood beside her, blushing with surprise and confusion* “You are thinking, Monsieur, that she does not resemble Clemence, and you are right. Cigmence is a De Tru din, but this is a De Vos pur sang, or I might rather say a Van Rooms; she takes after my family absolutely,—we have always' been fair and blue eyed. Ah, but it is sad when a race degener ates !” But Monsieur Louis Scherer kept on looking at Rosalie as if he could never tire of her face. “Bonne maman,” said the girl, softly, “hast thou told Monsieur where Clem ence is?” “Yes, yes, my angel, I have told all to Monsieur. Thy father will arrange all when he returns ; and now we will eat if dinner Is Berved.” At dinner-time Monsieur Louis began to talk to Rosalie. “And why did I not see you before?” he asked. “I was at the convent, and when the holidays came your regiment went away. Were you here long?” She looked up at him, but his admiring gaze made her blush again. “Three months or so.” He spoke carelessly; he had forgotten all about that far-off time since he had seen Rosalie. “Do you write to Clemence very often?” There was a saucy tone in her voice. “Clemence will be home to morrow,”she thought,“and then he will have no time to speak to me. I shall make hay while I can.” “Often? 0 yes, I think so;” but be spoke in an indifferent manner, and pulled his fair mustache whilehelooked at Rosalie. The young girl glanced at her grand mother. The heat and the dinner to getberhad been overpowering. Madame nodded in her chair. Rosalie looked frankly up into Louis’eyes and laughed. “Why does Mademoiselle laugh?” He drew hia chair closer to here. “You make me laugh; I cannot help it.” He was ruffled ; he asked his question agaiD more earnestly. “ Will not Mademoisell tell me why?” Rosalie blushed till Scherer thought he had never seen any one so distract iogly lovely. “ You will think me silly, Monsieur,” she said, “but there was an old scour at Bruges,—la Scour Marthe,—aud Bhe used to talk to us about men; she said they were ogres, aud she said we must beware of them, aud—and—” “And you think lam an ogre. I thank you, Mademoiselle.” “No, no, no. I did not say that.” She pouted up her pretty lips eoaxiug ly,—she was afraid she had angered him, and she wanted him to stop and talk to her. “only wondered,” she went on, archly, “ whether all the men in the world look at people as hard as you looked at me just now. I thought was perhaps for that reason la Sceur Marthe said they werq ogres.” She laughed out so merrily that lie could not feel affronted. “ Mille pardons !” Then he bent over her aud whispered, “ It is your fault if I looked too much.” The glance, or the tone that went with it, flushed Rosalie’s cheeks more deeply than ever; her eyes drooped, and for a minute her sauciness deserted her. It soon came back. “But you must not call me Made moiselle,” she said ; “it i 3 ridiculous when we are to be brother aud sister.” Louis Scherer rose up abruptly aud looked out of the window iuto the court yard. “Come,” he said, “we will go and and sit in tbe arbor.” “I cannot go,” pouted Rosalie. “I may only sit there in the morning.” “ Every morning?” “ Yes, every morning.” “ I wish it were morning then. Y'ou would laugh at mo if I told what you you seemed to me sitting there just now.” “ Just now, and I never guessed who you werej ma foi! I had imagiued Clemence’s finance to be a so—so differ ent person.” “ What kind of man did you imagine him?” “Aud that is just what I shall not tell you, Monsieur,” —she shook her head saucily,—“for you would then find out whatl think of you now.” They were still standing together in the window, Rosalie resting her soft round arms on the cushioned ledge, and Scherer bending over her till hia face nearly touched hers. “Hein !” said a sharp voice, and they both started apart. Elodie turned from them to sleepy Madame de Vos, who yawned and sat stiffly upright. “I have brought these cakes,” the old woman spoke grulfly. “I gave them to Alphonse, aud the mbecile has forgot ten them. They are the cakes Mam seile Clemence chooses for her jour de fete. Bo I have made them to-day for Monsieur Louis.” “Yes, yes, Elodie, thou art thought ful. You remember Elodie, Monsieur Louis?” The young soldier nodded at her, but the cuisiuiere went back to her kitchen muttering. Something had put Elodie out of temper. Monsieur de Vos came home in the evening ; he was delighted to see Clem ence’s lover. When Rosalie and her grandmother went to bed, the two men sat and smoked in silence. At last De Vos rose. “Weare both tired to-night, mon ami; we will talk business to-morrow. In your letter to me you proposed that the marriage should take place a fortnight after your return. Well, you and Clemence must fix the day between you, and leave the rest to me. I will fetch her home to-morrow.” He paused for an answer, but Louis stood silent; seemingly he was very busy putting bis pipe into its case. “Goodnight Louis!” said De Vos, “ I am giving you the bestthing I have to give; if I bad known two years ago all that was going to happen, perhaps you would not have got my consent so easily.” The tremor in the full strong voice moved the young soldier. “ I will try to deserve her,” he said, holding out his hand. “ Good night! ” But at breakfast-time tho honest, manly face of Monsieur de Vos looked clouded, and as soon as Louis Scherer made his appearance he went up to him. "Ma foi, mon garcon! I have bad news for you. I have a letter from Clemence ; she asks to stay till the eud of the week with her aunt. It is possi ble tbal my sister may recover, and the presence of my good child comfortsber. Still,” —he smiled as he spoke,—“l do not say what may happen when Clem ence hears that you are really here at the Ours d’Or.” “Bah! Bah!” Madame’s dull round eyes opened to let her superior wisdom out. “Why need she hear it? Clemence must not be disturbed. She has prom ised, and she would not retract. Why, then, should she be disturbed ? If sbe learns that Monsieur Louis is here, sne will weary to return home.” De Vos looked at Scherer. To bis surprise the young soldier made no answer. In came Rosalie, fresh and blooming, full of pretty excuses for be ing late, as she bent down to be kissed by her grandmother. “ Paresseuse!” said the old woman, fondly. “AllonSjthou andl mustamuse Mousieur Louis till Clemence comes home.” De Vos got up from table, and nodded smilingly to the three. “ Arrange it as you will. I must go to work, and leave you idle ones to your play. An revoir.” Scherer looked after him with an ir resolute face Justthen Elodie came to clear away breakfast, and Madame de Vos settled herself iD her arm chair and began on her everlasting tricot. The young man cleared his throat nervously, and Madame de Vos looked up at him. He mu9t speak now, but his words came hesitatingly : “ I am thinking of leaving you to-day, Madame ; Clemence is away, and I am not wanted here. I go to Alost to see my futher and my mother.” Then came a little pause, while his three listeners digested his words after their own fashion. Elodie nodded her head approvingly. Rheeaid to herself, “Good youth; he finds no pleasure in the bouse now that Clemence is not in it.” And she smiled as she carried away the coffee-pot and the table-cloth. Rosalie’s firm, full lips pouted redder than ever. “He shall not go,” she thought. “I have been counting on these four days, and I wiil not lose tho chance of amusing myself.” The grandmother’s eyes grew large and round, as the wolf’s did once on a time to Red Riding Hood. “ Leave us because Clemence is away ? The foolish youth does not know of what he speaks. My Rosalie must open her eyes.” |Then she said to Louis, “Go away, do yon say ? But that would be too unreason able, njy dear Louis.” She laid her fat hand on his coat sleeve, —“You must not go away; my son will think that you are offended, and, ma foi! what do I know? it is possible that Clemence may return sooner, and then how can I explain your going away? Aha! tell me that a little!” This fair-faced, happy-looking young soldier was troubled; and trouble was a new and uncomfortable sensation. Till now he had managed to get tbrongh life without it. bHe had got into debt, but then his father had arranged that for him, He had alwaya had friends in LANCASTER PA. WEDNESDAY MORNING JULY 14 1869 plenty among his comrades, and women had always smiled on him. Till he saw Clemence de Vos he had sunned himself,likea butterfly, in these smiles, caring nothing for the weight that might be attached to tbe flattering words he gave so readily in exchange. But there was something more than a mere pretty face in the Innkeeper’s daughter. It may have been that the secret of her power lay in her careless : ness of the flattery he had always found so successful. His captain was a distant relative of the innkeeper’s wife, and took the youth with him to the Ours d’Or ; and very soon alter the arrival of his company in the quaint old Flemish town, Louis Scherer bad asked Ma dame de Vos to induce her hus* abnd to consent to his betrothal to Clemence. The youDg soldier had a pleasant, frank way with women that won through all reserve and prejudice ; Auguste de Vos thought Scherer too young and frivolous a husband for his favorite child, but he could not with stand her mother’s pleading, aDd be consented reluctantly to the long en gagement. So far Scherer’s faith had stood the test. The two years were over, and he had come to claim his bride; but he was sorely troubled. Rosalie’s face haunted him all night, and when she came down to breakfast; she was still lovier than he had pictur ed her, —as fresh asa morningaunbeam. He grew more and moredisturbed, and when Madame de Vos called on Rosa lie to help in amusing him, it seemed to him that the only refuge from so ex quisitely .dangerous a trial to his con stancy lay in flight. He should be all right again when Clemence came back; Clemence always made him feel calm and peaceful. He looked up; Rosalie’s fair head was still bent over some flow ers she had been examining; itseemed to him suddenly that he was no longer troubled, aod that he might just as well await Clemence’s return at the Ours d’Or. “Alphonse! Elodie! ” cried Madame, “the goat! tbe thief! ah! ” and she bustled out of the parlor into the court yard, and charged agoat—that was dili gently nibbling the vine leaves—with the ball of worsted on the end of her knitting-pins. Four days passed away. On the eve ning of the fifth day Clemence stood once more under the gray archway of the Ours d’Or. There was on her earnest face a chastened look. In the quiet room at Bruges she bad seen so much of the real beauty oflife, —patience, sweetness, self-denying endurance, and, above all, so cheerful aud loving a conformity to ills and trials, that she asked herself now, as she stood ready to enter once more into the distractions of the oiKer world, which was true happiness ; en joyment to the full ofthe good things of this life, or the ineffable peace and joy that shone out of the pale eyes of the suffering Soeur Marie ? The sunlight had faded, but its heat lingered yet. All was still within the archway; Elodie was not in the kitchen: on the other side the parlor door stood open; there was no one within. Clem ence breathed a sigh of relief; she might muse a few moments longer, and she went on into the courtyard. There was light there still, but the birds had left 'off singing, the little fountain plashed quietly iuto tho stone basin, and gnats hummed everywhere; there was a feel ing of luxury iu the repose of the place. Ail at once the hush was broken. A low murmuring of voices came from the arbor at the farthest end of the court yard. Clemence looked round; the clus tering vine leaves hid the faces of the speakers, but she saw Rosalie’s blue gown. Clemence guessed that her father was the other tenautof thearbor; achildish thought came into her head. “ I will surprise them,” she said. She crept noiselessly to thearbor and peered through the vine leaves. Rosalie’s head was turned away bidden on her com panion’s shoulder, but his face met Clemence’s gaze,—it was not her father, it was Louis Scherer. A little cry from Clemence, then a start and some confusion ; it seemed but a second, and then Louis was beside her, holding her to his heart and kiss ing her tenderly. When Auguste de Vos came in to supper Rosalie was missing. “The poor child has a migraine,” said the grandmother; “she has gone to bed. Clemence has come home.” The good father passed on into the courtyard to call in the lovers. The moon had silvered the fountain, but it was dry and silent now. Monsieur de Vos held his daughter in along, fond embrace. He knew that in the future he could not be to her that which he had lately been, and the re membrance of her earnest, watchful tenderness since his deep sorrow had come upon him thrilled in his voice and manner to-night, though he tried to speak gayly. “ Well, young folks, is theday fixed?” Clemence linked her arm through her father’s. “ We have not yet spoken of it,” said Louis. “ There is no hurry, mon garcon, so far as I am concerned. You need not think we want to lose our Clemence.” lie squeezed her hand fondly in his arm. “ But if Clemence will consent,” — Louis spoke very fast; he seemed to be driving his words out against their will, —“ it will be better to keep to the old arrangement, aud let our marriage be on this day fortnight.” “ That is right, my lad, quite right! First pledges should never be broken ; it is weak and frivolous to alter.” The brave, kind father had striven to put willingness into his voice; but the little hand lyiDg close against his heart felt it heave as if a strong, suppressed sob was kept in prison and wanted to get out. Rosalie cami'down to breakfast pale and heavy eyed. “You go into the sun too much,” said her father, and then he went back to his beloved newspaper. Elodie had come into the room, and there was a strange and angry significance in the glabce she beßtowed on Madame de Vos. Tho fulness of her joy made Clemence selfish. Shehad no thoughtof auy one but Louis, and she followed him out into the courtyard without even looking at Rosalie. One comprehends that “the first fruits” was a most precious offering. Wbat eecond joy can equal the first f— the first view of mountain scenery,—of the sea, - the yearly joy of the first day of spring,—or, the most intense of all, the first day ofreunion after separation, —all these have ecstacy in' them as flee Ling as breath on a mirror, as the glory of the rainbow. Clemence seemed to walk on air. As sbe stepped out into the flood of sun shine, the birds were singing one against another, every sparklet of the fouutaiu seemed to bid her welcome. “Rhall we go towards the old abbey?” said Louis. She Dodded, and ran a.way up stairs. She had'hardly patience to put on her hat and cloak; in her joy and excite ment every moment robbed from the delight of Lis presence trebled in length. She was hastening down stairs again when tho door of her grandmother’s room opened. “Come here, Clemence; I have wool only for to-day. Thou must get me more; thou wilt pass Scb.melger’smaga sin 4 in the Marche au:c Grains; thou must not forget this. /Lnd seek all the patterns; I must get my bags. Tiens! tiens! Where are they ;” Clemence answered, <(agerly, “Louis is waiting, bonne mam an, aDd if you nave enough for to day, I will manage to get you some for t o-morrow, this evening. Good-by, now 1” and she ran away. An unpleasant smile came into Ma dame’s face. “ Louis is waiting! I ffa foi! the poor boy would be content to - * wait all day if he had Rosalie to talk t> >. How can this end ? I must see how far things have gone with my sweet aD gel, and then I must make these foolish children happy in the way I conside r best suited to them. Yes,lamthemo itfittingjudge.” And she went on rapid! .y with the knit ting.” A cloud had come ov er the sunshine of Clemence’s happiness when she came In from her walk, and y et she eould not tell whence it came. She stood in her little room taking off her hat, “ Am I exact ing,” she asked herself; “do I expect too much joy from mere human life ? What does this troubled longing mean ?*” Then a pause, while thought searched' deeper; then, with a little sigh, “Hav e I exaggerated? in these long months o f absence have I dreamed over his words and his looks till I have made them out to be more tender, more —I cannot even say what I want in them. I don’t know what I miss, only something is gone.” She buried her face between her small hands. “It is so ungrateful to murmur; he is very king and thoughtful for me. O, what is this that has come over me? Am I growing wicked?” A look of terror was in the pure, earnest eyes as she suddenly raised her head and push ed her hair from her forehead. “Just now it seemed to me that he made my fatigue a pretext, and was glad to shorten our walk, because he was tired ‘ of me—or is it this,” —a calmer look came into the lovely, troubled face—“is it that all earthly joy is unsatisfactory, and this feeling is sent to me thus early to wean me from desiring it?” Again she mused: “No; even ia Sceur Maria said I ought to think much of Louis and his love, and I must. It seems to me that he ia my all, —the very lightof my life; and what have I been doiug ? —blamiDg him for want of love, for I suppose that is really what I mean.” Shejjfent down stairs; her troubles seemeff increasing rather than soothed by self-communing. Except Rosalie, every one looked grave and preoccupied ; she had recov ered her spirits, and kept up an inces sant flow of talk. Clemence tried to be at ease, but her lover’s downcast look checked her ; a sort of embarrassment came when she spoke to him. “It is fancy,” she thought. “Why, my father is silent also—they are both engaged in planning our future life. How grateful I ought to be to have a place In the thoughts of two such men! I must conquer this disquiet, or Louis will perceive it.” That night both the sisters’ pillows were wet with tears. .Tears with the young Rosalie of wild grief at the injustice which was break ing her heart, aDd at the pertidy which could love her best and yet persist in wedding her sister. On that evening when Clemence had surprised them in the arbor —although Scherer had not actually professed to love Ro salie, he had yet drawn tbe ardent, indiscreet girl to a sudden half confes sion of her passion for him, —a passion which the poor, vehement child told herself, iu the midst of her humiliation, that he had been trying his best to kin dle since he first saw her. Borne womeu would never have arrived at this knowl edge ; but Rosalie’s over mastering van ity saved her from tho self-reproach of naving sought Louis. “I shall die of sorrow,” she said, as she lay sobbing in the moonlight; ami then, perhaps, both he and Clem ence will be sorry, aud wiil come and cry over my grave-” And Clemence lay awake, too, alone in her room, with widely opened eyes, trying to regain her lost peace. What was this that had come to her? The character of all others that she had held in aversion was that of a jealous uutrusting woman. And what was she now ? And yet Clemence was not jealous She never dreamed that her h. rer’s laith had goue astray to another; she only felt her love was not returned; she longed for something that she missed. Through the long night she tried to school herself with severe reproaches. “It is not his fault,” she said. “He has not changed ; it is I, who loves him too much. He has been goiug about in the world, meeting continually with fresh distractions to his thoughts; while I have stayed here broodiDg overt he one idea till I have made an idol of it.” Tears gave no relief to the craving, restless torture. “I cannot help it,” she said. “I must love as I love him now forever.” But morniDg brought hope with it. “It may be the very strength of his love that has changed him so. Ah ! when we are married these fits of moody silence will disappear, and his frank, warm nature, will assert itself again. I will not think any more,” she said. Bhe found Louis alone in her little parlor. His greeting was warmer than it had been aince his first arrival. “ I am going to Alost, my Clemence, but I shall return soon, and bring my father and my mother with me.” It w’as hard to thinkof parting, butit was a relief. This little separation might help them both, and yet tears came into her eyes as she looked at her lover. “ Only a few days,” he said, he did smile; he looked toward the doorway, from her. A sudden impulse mastered Clem ence. “Louis,” —she clasped her hands tightly together,—“do not be angry with me; it is only love that makes me speak. Are you sure you wish to be my hus band ?” He stood looking at her, then a faint flush rose in his cheek. “ You are joking.” He tried to laugh. “I should not have returned to claim you, Clemence, if I had not wished this.” In came Madame de Vos with Rosalie, and Clemence did not get another mo ment with her lover. And when he had started for Alost, it seemed to her that she had awakened from a paiDful dream. How full of morbid fancies she had been ! If Ma dame de Vos had not come in when she did, she might have worried Louis with a confession of all her doubts and mis givings. And with the relief from doubt her usual energy returned. All the important articles of tier trousseau bad long been ready; for there were some trifles which required her atten tion, and in the selection of these she wanted Rosalie’s help and taste. She went into the old lady’s room to look for her sister. “Where is Rosalie ?” “Rosalie must not be disturbed,” said Madame. There was sadness in her voice, and there was anger, too, but Clemence did not notice it. “Bonne maman, I must have her to go with me to Madame Gregoire’s. Rbe has to choose her own dress, you know, and she can decide for me No one has such a charming taste as Rosalie.” ‘ Sbe shall not go, I tell you. There was a tempest of passion in the grand mother’s broken voice. “Clemence,” she went on, “thou art a monster of selfishness. What, then, I ask thee, is it not. enough that the happiness of ;hese two hearts is forever sacrificed to thine, but thou wouldst employ, for thy vanity, the time the poorinnocent gives to her tears.” Clemence felt sick and trembling; her grandmother’sindignation brought a conviction of guiltto her timid heart; and yet she did not know her crime. The haunting shadow of theselastdays had come near her, and was each in stant taking a more real shape; but she could not move or speak. She could only look with the earnest, imploring glance which had so much power to ir ritate Madam de Vos. “ But, Clemence, It is all very fine to look at me in that innocent way. Bah ! thou ha3t been blind if thou hast not seen it.” “ Blind ” the voice was faint and full of fear. “Bah —bah—bah!” The old woman lashed herself into a fresh anger, so aa to steel her heart against the entrance that plaintive word had nearly found. “Clemence, if thou art not blind, thou art, indeed, selfish. How, then, should it happen otherwise? These two are made one for the other. Rosalie’s gown for thy wedding with Louis! Her shroud more likely ; for the sweet child will die of despair,” Clemence started. She went up to her grandmother, and took a firm hold of her arm. “Speak more plainly,” she said, in a hard, strained voice, that startled Ma dame. “Do you mean to tell me that Rosalie loves Louis?” An angry flush rose on her cheeks. “ Not more than he loves her. And why should I not mean to tell thee? It is the kindest and the best office I can do thee, Clemence.” Her voice was less aDgry, and she laid her hand on the young girl’s clasping fingers. “ I warn thee in time not to force thyself on an unwilliDg husband.” For a moment Clemence stood crim ; eoned, almost suffocated with a horrible fear. Had Louis never loved her? Then the blood retreated as suddenly as it had come. Once more she felt free to speak. “How do you know thiß?” She spoke with authority, and Madame was cowed. “I know it from the child herself. Besides, was it not enough to see the change that came over Louis at thy re turn ?” “Ah!” burst from the pale lips; but there was no answer; aDd the grand mother’s voice was not so firm when she next spoke. j “He has not been like the same crea -1 ture, that poor youth. It is not surely ■ possible that thou hast thought him happy? But, Clemence, ask any one of the household. They must tell thee how happy he was with Rosalie. He coald not bear to lose sight of her a mo ment.” Madame paused for an answer; but Clemence only raised her head defiant ly, as if to repel sympathy. Then she went away. In that quaint old Flemish city, in one of the side ohapelsof a small church, ia a beautiful picture of the Crucifixion. At midday a woman came into the lit tle chapel aud knelt before its altar. At three o’clock she was there, still kneel log. The sacristan had observed the woman as he walked up and down the aisle. — At first she knelt rigid, immovable as one of tbe statutes around her, her face hidden by tbe falling black hood. As he passed again the head was bowed low over the clasped hands, and the whole body shaken with a tempest of so row. The sacristan was teuder heart ed, and he moved to tho other eud ofthe church to get out of sight aDd hearing. Now, at three o’clock, he passed again by the Chapel of the Cru cifixion. The woman knelt there still, but her grief was hushed. Her hands were clasped but her head was thrown back, and the sacristan saw a young face, tear-stained, but no longersad, the dark eyes fixed in lovlngcontemplation on the picture above her. When be passed again thechapel was empty. Long ago instinct had told Clemence that she had a high, proud spirit; under the loving rule of her father, and her mother this had rarely been aroused. Her grandmother's wordsthismorning raised a storm of passionate indignation that mastered sorrow. When she left Madame de Vos she hurried to her own room and locked the door. “ It 13 a conspiracy, a plot, made by bonne maman herself to rob me of Louis.” She fiung herself on her knees beside her bed. and hid her face while thestorm of passionate anger swept over her. Not for long. Like a cold baud laid on her heart camejheremembrance of Rosalie’s loveliness aud her own in feriority. Jealousy was not long added to her suffering; there must be hope to feed that pain; something in her own heart told Clemence after a while that hope for her was over. But the venement anger returned. Her own passion terrified her; sbecould find no power to strive against it, and almost mechanically she hurried to Bt. Michel's. She had been taken there as a child to see the famous picture of the Cruci fixion, and an instinct, perhaps the con sciousness that she would nolbeknowu or recognized in the far oft', quiet little church, had taken her there to-day. And Clemence stayed there till the evil spirit within her was laid ; till a holy and calm light shone into her troubled heart; till she repented her anger, and resolved to give up self en tirely, let the pain be what it might. As she left the church, something seemed to whisper her not to put delay between her purpose aud its execution. Bhe turned iu the direction of the rail way station. It was a great relief to find that a train was about to start for Aloat; she drew her hood closely over her head, and entered one of the carriages. Bo loug as the train moved on she never flinched from her purpose; but here is Alost, and she must take her way alouo into the strange town. There came to Clemence a feeling of unreality in that which she was about to do, and her purpose faltered. “Have I not - been hasty and romant ic?” site thought. “ What If the whole story should be untrue? O, what will Louis think of me for following him to ids own home.” But the sure convic tion came back. Aud then if she were not to find him how could she announce herself to his father und mother as the girl to whom their son had been betrothed, butwhom he no longer loved ? Bhe stopped, look ed wistfully back towards the station. Just theu the chimes of Alost began to play; the sound cheered her. Bhe turn ed a little shop with-sponges roped like onions on each side of the door. “Can you tell me where Monsieur Scherer lives? ?” she asked. “ Mods. Scherer?" Au apple-cbeeked old man in a blouse pushed before his stolid looking son, —" Dame ! there are many Scherers in the town of Alost; is it then the Scherer whose sou the mili taire returned this morning? Tiens ! there he is, Mademoiselle, —there is Monsieur Scherer, tils, opposite." Yes, there on the opposite side of the way was Louis. (Jiemence’s heart seemed in her throat for a moment she could not move, and then she came out of the little shop, and Louis saw her. He was by her side in an instant. “ Clemeuoe, what is it? what has happened ?” Her courage was going fast; face to face again with him her word 3 would not come. " Louis," she said, at last, but with out looking at him, " I want to speak to you, hut not iu your own home." He looked at her wonderiugly ; it seemed to him that she had lost her sense, but still her calmly spoken words compelled him to obey her. He led the way like a man in a dream into a small, deserted street, and then a thought oc curred to him. " Wehaveafruitgardeu hereabouts," he said, "and I have the key ; I was going there for my mother." A little way on, aud they came to a high wall. Louis Scherer opened a small door in it, and Clemence found herself iu a walled garden, shaded by pear trees. Their entrance startled a troop o f brilliant butterflies from the scarlet runner vines. The two stood facing one another just within thegate. "Louis,” —she spoke simply aud quietly —“why did you not auswer me truly this morning ? Why did you not say, ‘I love Rosalie’?” His eyes.fell, and her heart sfiuk with them. Till then, Clemence had not known that hope yet lingered. " What cause have I given you for jealousy ?" he said, sullenly ; and then, "You are making us both unhappy, .Clemence.” She laid her hand gently on his arm. "Do not be angry with me. You will not when you have listened. I was agitated, I met you so suddenly, aud I begaD wrongly. I have not came here to anger you, my Louis, —it is the last time I call you so. I came only to set you free. I want you to be happy. No, do not stop me. No one shall ever blame you. I shall tell ray father that I have broken with you, —that —I do not wish to be your wife.” "And do younot wish it.Clemeuce?” A great struggle was going on iu the young soldier’s heart; his recollection was coming back. He held both her hands while he waited for her answer. A deep blush spread over her face, and her eyes drooped. It was so hard to speak. " No, I do not wish it," she said, at last, and the true clear eyes looked at him again. " You do not love me as I must be loved. You thought you ;oved me two years ago.” His eager denial would be heard. Clemence smiled sadly. “ Well, then, you love me ; but now you have fouud one bfetter suit ed to you, and your love has changed. Ido not blame you—only—if you had toldme atonce—at first,"—she stepped; she had resolved not to reproach him. She had borne up bravely ; but now the break in her voice conquered Louis. He fell on his knees beside her, still holding.both the little hands; hecovered them with kisses. " Clemence,”—his voice was hoarse and choked’, —"I was blind—mad wicked, i* yielded to the fancy of a moment—it is not more. Pardon me— O, pardon me, and give me back your love !” And as ho spoke the words he believed in them. She drew her hands away. She had counted on this trial. It was the sharp est agony of all; and yet he must never know it. She would not fail now. "Louis,” —her voice shook, but she tried to steady it,—"it is only your kind neart that speaks now. Listen. Rosalie loves you ; and you must mar ry her. In a few days you will have learned that you love her; that it is not in your power to make me happy. I should be wretched with ahusband who could not love me with all his heart; and then what would life be to you or me? Now let me go.” It seemed that a mighty change had passed over these lovers. This loving, submissive ClemeDce was all at once a being to be reverenced as well as loved. Louis felt so infinitely abased before her it seemed wonderful that be could have dared now to kiss her bands. If she would but listen to him! his weak heart still whispered ; but that was not possible. She only answered, —“No, Louie,—let me go.” Slowly and with bent head he opened the gate for her. “When will you return to the Ours d’Or?” said Clemence. “ I do not intend to return there.” Bhe gave him a look, half sad, half smiliDg,—a look that often came back to him in the future; theu she drew her hood closely over her face and hastened back to the statiou. It is evening again in the courtyard of the Ours d’Or; the little fountain’s plash is almost plaintive In the stillness; stillness now, but not so long ago stern and angry words had been spoken in the vine-shaded arbor ; only Clemence's tc-ars had power to subdue her father's indignation. There had been a long pause, and now Auguste de Vos spoke again : “But for thee, my darling, the false hearted fellow should never have dark ened the old archway again, for I can see exactly what has come to pass, and how it all happened, spite of thy tender artifice. Elodie hasn’t been silentsince thy departure ; she was not blind, as I was. If it must be, let him take Ro salie at once, and then thou shalt come back from Bruges, my Clemence, and thou shalt be thy father’s comfort aud blessing.” And Clemence still keeps house for her father at the Ours d’Or, for the “bonne maman” went back to Louvain on Rosalie’s wedding day. The minx has no perception of rela tive fltuess, no conviction of inferiority, and no sense of reverence. Nothing abashes her, and the force which can subdue her has yet to be discovered. Bo far from belonging to the class of in genues who blush, and giggle, aDd stammer if a stranger speaks to them, aud whose poor little brains turn to water on the sligheai provocation, the minx will hold her own agaiDSt a host, and not even a host can put her down. If of the intellectual kind, she will un dertake an argument with the best man of his time, ou bis own special ground— if indeed that can be called an argument which consists of wild assertions on her part and an absolute mental inability to be instructed by the clearest demonstra tions on his. There is nothing too diffi cult for her to dogmatize on, and no flight too lofty for her to attempt. She will hold forth about the functions of the protoplasm, the theory of natural selection, tbe character of Queen Mary of Bcotlaud, and whether poor Joan of Naples was mad or only miserable, wiLhout more knowledge of science or of history than what she has picked up by hearsay or a chance newspaper re view ; aud she will hold forth to men who have devoted their whole energies to these very subjects, and who know every particle of evideuce that can be brought to hear on either side. Buther final words will be probably, “ I don’t agree with you,” after they have good naturedly showered dowu facts aud ar guments and demonstrations, for which she has not a stone in her whole wallet to match with theirs. But an intellect ual minx never troubles herself about facts. Opinions and intuitive percep tions are what she goes by ; and the small drawbacks, that her opinions are based on nothing in the way of know ledge, and thatberintuitiveperceptlons have no foundation to rest on, do not mitigate the severity of her positiveuess, or Boitou tbe jerky hardness of her as sertions. Being without reverence, she ia with out modesty or self distrust; being eu tirely satisfied with her state and con dltlon, she is non-receptive of further impressions, but has already begun to fossilize in her crude immaturity. In the same way she will visit a gallery in company with an artist, and criticise the pictures, though she does not know the A BCof painting; she will give her opinion' about the merits of au opera and the singers, though she cannot go through thechord of Cnaturalcorrectly; and she will stand up in the presence of a literary man of note, and declare that no one at the present day can write good English, but she could not parse a sen tence grammatically to save her life, and beyond the agreement of singulars and plurals knows nothing of the con struction of language. But her meeker sisters listen to her in wonder at her ability ; and though one or two perhaps of clearer brains than the rest may see through the froth and down to the mi croscopic core, and may regret that she should be “allowed to go on so,” yet they are generally powerless to amend matters. The minx has the bit between her teeth and “goes on so,” to the end. This kind snubs even young men. In genera! the minx fraternizes closely with young men ; one of her character istics being a horror of women, which translates itself in various forms, ac cording to her kind; but the critical minx is critical rather than anything else: and even the commendable in stinct of ordinary girlhood, to believe each youth a hero till she iinds him a snob, gets overlaid by the greater force of the critical faculty—the upstart qual ity of intellectual assurance. The in tellectual minx Is consequently as much disliked by the other sex as she is by her own ; and in her mental life is em phatically an lehmaelite, without a friend anywhere. Twiu-sister to the critical minx is she of the moral and prudish sort. A moral minx is a fearful creature to en counter; forever flying at your throat and charging you with meanings you had not the smallest desire your words should convey, and which, if you are a ' woman, you had not the smallest idea they could convey. For the moral minx has a distressing keen scent for impro priety, and will tax her own mother with going too far if she hears her speak iug gravely on serious subjects. Indeed, the mother who has spoiled her ia gen erally the favorite butt of the minx, who thus executes poetical justice una wares, and smites the hand that has helped to mishape her. It never occurs to the moral miux thatbervery accute ness of perception for evil is of itself a confession of au improper course of thought, and that the saying “To the pure all things are pure”, though dan gerous are all truths when exaggerate ed, is nevertheless a truth, and to be held as one. The moral minx does not show her own purity when she finds out the specks aud flaws so easily in another’s ermine. Thereis a charming little paper in the “Spectator", wherein is shown the contrast between the woman who sees beauty in all things aud her who sees only ugliness and de formity ; and the moral minx instances the truth of the latter cbapicter. “The mind, sees what it brings”, and we may be very sure that when girls ase so ex cessively keen in their hunt after im morality they are led to the search by the eympatQy of like to like, and they see that to which they bring the faculty of seeing. There is nothing more un pleasant than to see a young girl, whose thoughts should be pure assuow and clear as crystal, Jgiven up to pruri ency of moral miuxhood, eager to dis* cover improprieties which she ought not even to know of and thinking that she shows her modesty by her quite gratuitous condemnation of the im modesty she herself lias created. Then there is the flirting and dressy minx ; the little puss who cares for nothing in the world but admiration, and who gets it —tempered. This kind is also in her turn an Ishmselite, being the natural enemy of all the plain girls and quiet girlsof her acquaintance, and the horror of the women, whom she generally designates as elderly females; that being the mo9t unpleasant appella tion she knows of. To the one she is cruel and insolent, asserting her own superiority in the artofattraction with out much disguise; to the other she is what old-fashioned people used to call hoity-toity, despising their advice, pre ferring indeed their disapprobation to their cou-ntenance, and going through her life never-mlndingand don’t-caring whatever may be said of her by her oWn sex, so long as she has the admira tion of the other. She asks for nothing nobler than this mere surface-admira tion —this mere personal attraction— and she gets nothing nobler. Men will flirt with her to any extent; but, save perhaps one or two boys without expe rience, or now and then an old man who lets his better judgment l)e swamped in his vanity, no one realist loves her, because no one believes in’ her and all see through her. This is the little creature who exaggerates a fashion into a caricature by the ex tremes to which she carries it; who dresses neither for beauty nor conveni ence, hot for show and to startle the NUMBER 28 | more sober-minded by the audacity of her excesses; who has attained the most important end of her existence when every one she meets in the street turns round and stares after her —wheu men call her stuuning, and women atro cious—and when her flirtations can be carried to just that point which lies be tween notoriety and scandal. Then she is content. She has attracted attention, flouted public opinion, showu women that she despises them, and has asserted her individuality at tbo cost of every other consideration—even at the cost of beauty and of feminine charm. This is the flirting and dressing tuinx ; and au anxious little handful she is to those parents and elder sisters who have the misfortune to number her among them. All women dislike minxes—which is not to be wondered at, minxes being es sentially antagonistic to women, sys tematically rebellious to)thelr authority, and regardless of their influence. A miux knows everything. She will go her own way wherever it may lead her, ami no one has power to turn her from It. And not only will Bhe go her own way, but she will forco others from theirs, and claim for herself the obedience she will not render. If she dislikes a fashion or a pattern, her sla ters, and even her mother, must not adopt it. Bhe will not follow the pre scription of doctor or mother in matters concerning her own health, but she will lay down the law for others, and take the whole household to task if they do not adopt heradvice. If she is a kindly natured minx, she will insistou petting and caressing her friend in hysterics, and will order out of the room the ex perienced wotnau who knows how to grapple with that not very difficult dis order. And though her own unskilled method simply prolongs the lit till it ends in exhaustion and collapse, yet she will not believe in the benevoleuce or the) wisdo m of the sharp severity which would cut it short iu leas than tlvemin utes. Heaven help the sufferer brough l under the sway of the medical miux ! In fact, the basest quality of the minx is her eu tire waut of reverence throughout. Bhe criticises where she shouldadmlre. Bhe teaches where she should learn. Bhe is past guidance, yet she is full of command aud interference; and her self-sufficiency and contempt for others are in about equal proportions. She has not one characteristic charm of youth; and if-any kiud genius wished to do mankind a signal service, he would abolish the whole race of minxes, root and branch, ami leave us in their stead the sweet aud reverent and teach able girlhood we used to love before the deification of pertuess was determined on. For minxes are our real girls than was the changeling the dis tracted mother’s child. What a bless ing it would be if wo could And the charm that would send them, pull*! up the chimney, aud briug back iu their stead the quiet, tender, graceful maiden who loved to learn from her mother ami her elders how best to become a noble aud a capable woman—who believed in that mother’s great wisdom, aud to whom it would have come with the shock of blasphemy had she ventured even to question her superiority, not to speak of the condemnation aud cool criticism so fashionable to-da# with tho whole of the minx tribe! Perhaps the tide will turn some day, and the return wave bring us back our darliugs, aud sweep ott" into the illimitable ocean of eternity this bad and painful traversity. The Unspoken Warning. I am no believer iu the supernatural. I never saw any ghosts, never heard any strange noises; none, at least, that could not be accounted for ou nutural principles. I never Saw lights round the bed or heard knocks ou the head board which proved to be “forerun ners” of sickness or death ; I never had even dreams come to pass, and as to spirits, in the common acceptance of the term, since the days of the Fox girls, my prcseuce has always been a damper. I am not one of the sort who are al ways ou the lookout for signs and won ders; and if want of faith in spiritual ism or supernaturalism is a siu, I ought to have been the last one to look for so marked a—you may name it what you please, I call it divine interposition, us the one I am about to relate, all the wit nesses to which—aud they are nol few —are still living. One bitter cold day in wlntera merry party of us, nestled down under furry robes, went to meet an appointment with a friend, living a few miles dis taut, with whom we were to spend the afternoon aDd iu the evening attend a concert to be held near by. Tho sleighing was delightful, tho air keen and inspiring, the host und host ess genial as the crackling fires in the grates, and the invited guests, of whom there were many besides ourselves, iu that peculiar visiting trim, which only old time friends, long parted, cau enjoy. Restraint was thrown aside ; we crack ed jokes, we chatted like magpies, aud talked a little of the coming concert, which promised a rare treat to our un sophisticated ears. All went merry as a marriage bell, and merrier than some till just before tea, when I was seized witn a sudden aud unaccountable de sire to go home, accompanied by a dread or fear of something, I knew not what, which made the return appear, uot a matter of choice, but a thing im perative. I tried to reason it away, to revive anticipations of the concert; I thought of the disappointment it would be to those who came with me to give it up, and running over iu my mind the con dition in which things were left at home, could find no ground for alarm. For many years a part of the house had been rented to a trusty family ; our children were often rocked iu the same cradle, and half the time ate atthe same table; locks and bolts were things un used, and indeed as in word we were neighbors. In their care had been left a boy of ten years, the only one of the family remaining at home, who knew that when he returned from school he was expected to bring in wood and kin dlings for the morning fire, take a sup per alone, or with little Clara K , as be chose, and otherwise pass the lime as he pleased, only lie must not go in the street to play or ou the pond to skate. He had been left many times in ills way, and had never given occasion for the slightest uneasiness; still, as this nameless fear grew upon me, it took the form of a conviction that dan ger of some sort threatened this be loved child. I was rising to go and ask Mr. A to take me home, when some one said, “ You are very pale ; are you 111 ?” “No,” I answered, and, dropping back in the chair, told them how strangely I had been exercised for the last few minutes, adding, “I really must go home.” There was a perfect chorus of voices against it, and fora little time I was silenced though not convinced. Some one laid the matter before Mr. A , who replied : “ Nonsense, Eddie is a good boy to mind; he will do nothing in our ab sence that he would not do if we were there, aud is enjoying himself weil at this moment, I’ll warrant.” This answer was brought to me in triumph, and I resolved to do as they said, “ not to think abodtit.” Rut at tea my hand almost refused to carry food to my lips, and I found it utterly impossible to swallow a mouthful. A deathlike chill crept over me, atnl I knew that every eye was upon me as I left the room. Mr. A. rose, saying in a ebauged voice and without ceremony : “ Make haste ; bring the horse round ; wo must go right away. I never saw her iu such a state before ; there is something Iu it.” He followed me to the parlor, but before be could speak I was pleading as for dear life that not a moment be lost In starting for home. — " I know,” said I, " it is not all imagi nation, aud whether it is or not, I shall certainly die if this dreadful incubus is not removed shortly.” All was noweoofusion ; the tea table deserted, the meal scarce tasted; and my friends alarmed as much at my looks as at my words, were as anxious to hurry me off as they had been to de tain me. To me those terrible moments seemed hours, yet I am assured that not more than half an hour elapsed from the time my fears first found expression be fore we were on the road towards home. A .horse somewhat noted for fleetness was before us, and with only two in the cuifter*j£he rest staid to the concert, and Mr. A. promise that if nothing hadMßppened he would return —we :went over the road at a rapid pace. I Cknew from the frequent repetition of a peculiar signal that the beast was being urged’to his best, yet I grew sick with impatience at the restraint. I wanted to fly. All this time my fears had taken no definite shape. I only knew that the HATE or ADVEBTIhIHG. Business ADYXKTiBKKZzert, till a year pir 3aare or ten tinea; to par year for each to Itlonal square. real Estate Advertising, lOoenta a line for the'lrat, aud scent* for eachaubßequenl in sertion. Gznebal ADVCRTiaiNO 7 cent* a lino far the firs 1 , and 4 ceuta for each «üb>equout Inser tion, Special Notiom lnsorted la Local Column 15 jants per llna. Special Notices preceding marriages and deaths, 10 cents per lino for first Insertion* anil 5 cents for every subsequent Insertion j| LKQALAIfD OTHt aNOTICKS— Evocators’ ..otlcos .. Administrators* uotlces,... Assignees' notices,.... Auditors’ notices Other “Notices, 'ten lines, or less, . three times, .... 1.60 child was iu danger and I felt Impelled to hurry to the rescue. Ouly once was the silence broken in that three mile jourhey, ami that was when, on reach ing au eminence from which the house was iu full view, I said, “Thank God the house Isn’t ou lire.” “That was ray own thought” said Mr. \ , but there wrs no slacken ing of speed. On reaching home a cheerful light was glimmering from Mrs. e -’s window; before l}io ve hicle had fairly stopped, wo were clear of it and opening the door said iu the very same breath, “Where’s EddieV” “Eddie? why, lie was here n little ago,” answered Mrs. E , pleasant ly, trying to dissipate the alarm she saw written on our countenance, “He ate supper with the children, and played awhile at marbles; then spoke of Libby Rose having a new picture book, aud that he wanted to see it. You’ll find him over there.” With swift steps Mr. A crossed the street, to the place mentioned, hut returned with, “He has not been there.” Eddie was remarkably fond of skating, and ray uext thought was that he hud been tempted to disobedience. 1 said calmly “We will go to the pond.” I was perfectly collected ; I could have worked all night without fatigue with the nerves lu that state of tension; but Mr. A said, “No, you must go aud lie down. Eddie Is safe enough somewhere about the village. I’ll go and llud him ! Rut there was nothing in the tone or in the words to assure me. As he spoke he crossed the hall to our owu room, utul turned the nob. The door was locked. What could that mean? Eddie was either on the inside or had taken the key away with him. Mr. A ran round to a window* with a broken spring, which yuuld bo upeuod from the outside. It went up with a clang, hut a dense volume of smoko drove him back. After an In stant another attempt was made, ami this time on a lounge directly under the window, ho stumbled on the insensible form ofl ilt It* Ed die, smothered lu smoke! Limp and apparently* lifeless, ho was home into the fresh, cold uir, and after some rough haudling, was restored to consciousness. From that hour I think I have known how Abraham felt when he lifted Isaac from the alter unharmed, and, iu obedi ence to the command of the all gel of tho Lord. True 1 hail been subjected to no such trial of strength and faith ; my Father knew I would have shrunk ut terly before it; yet, if it was not a simi lar messenger that whispered to me in tho midst of that gay party au hour previous, I have no wish to be con vinced of it, and were the book placed in my hands which I knew hud power to rob mo of this sweet belief, I would never open it. Eddie said on returning from,-school he made a good live, and as the wood was snowy, thought ho would put it into the oven to dry ; something he hud never done before. Then on leaving Mr, E ’a room ho went In for au ap ple before going to see Libby Rose’s picture book, aud it seemed so nice and warm he thought he would lie down a while, lie could give no explanation us to what prompted him to turn the key ; it was the iiist and lust lime, but this would have made no difference in the result, fur no one would have dis covered the smoko in time to save hlo life. Tho wood in the oven was burned to ashes, but as the doors were closed there was no danger of falling embers setting the house on lire ; aud hud we staid to tho coucert every thing would have been us when we left, except that little Ed die's voice would never more have made music for our ears. Every one said that with a delay of live or even three min utes we fciiothd have been to late. Many y ears have pussed since then, yet now. when the lamp of Faith burns dim, God and Ills promises seem a great way oil’, I have only to go hack to tliis—the first, the last and onjy man ifestation of his nature —to feel thut, “As a father earoth for his children so oareth he for us.” “Deliver us from evil, for Thine Isthopower,” Is no inero formality, but words pregnant with meanlug. Death of Lady Jane Grey Hho paused, us If to put away from her tho world, with which nho hud now done forever. Then she added, “I pray you all, poor ChriHliuu people, to bear me witness that I die u true Christian woman, aud that I look to be saved by no other means than the mercy of God, in the merits of the blood of His ouly Son, our Lord Jesus Christ. And now good people, while 1 am alive, I pray you uesist me with your prayers.” Kneeling down, she said to Fecken lium, the on ly divine whom Mary would allow* to come near her, “(Shall I say this psalm?” The Abbot fullered, “Yes;” on which she repeated, iu u clear voice, the noble psalm : “Have mercy upon me, O after Thy great goodness ; according to the multitude of Thy mercies do away mine offences,” When she had come to tho last line she stood np on her feet and took oil'-her gloves and kerchief, which she gave to Elizabeth Tylney. The book of psalms she gave to Thomas Rrydges, the lieu tenant’s deputy. Then she untied her gown, and took oil' her bridal gear. The headsmau offered to ussist her ; but she put his hands gently aside, ami drew a white kerchief round her eyes. The veiled figure of tho executioner sank at her feet, aud begged her forgiveness for what he had now to do. She whispered in his ear a few soft words of pity and pardon; and then said to him openly, “I pray you despatch me quickly.” Kneeling before the block, she felt for it blindly with her open lingers. One who stood by her touched aud guided her hand to the place which it sought; when she laid down her noble bund, and saying, “ Lord, iuto Thy hands 1 commend my spirit,” passed, with tho prayer on her lips, iuto everlasting rest. JJc.pwurth Dixon. Being Knocked Abont. It Is a good thing for a young man. to lie “knocked about in the world,” though his soft hearted parents may not think ho. All youths, or il not all. cer tuinly nineteen out of twenty, enter life with a surplusage of self conceit. The sooner they are relieved of it the better. If, iu measuring themselves with wiser and older men, they di.-cover it is un warranted aud get rid of it gracefully of their owu accord, well and good ; il not it is desirable, for their owu nukes, that It be " knocked out of them.” A boy who is sent to a large school noon finds his level. His will may have been paramount at home; but school boys are democratic In their ideas, and if arrogant, he is sure to be thrashed into a recognition of the golden rule. The world is a public school, and it soon teaches a new pup il his place. If he has the attributes that belong to a leader, he will be . installed iu the position of a leader; if not, whatever his opinion of hisabillties may be, he will be compelled to fall iD with the rank aud file. If not destined to greatnessthe next best thing to which he enu aspire is respectability ; but no man can be truly good or respect able who is vain and overbearing. liy the time the novice has found his legitimate social position, be it high or low, the probability is that the dis agreeable traits of his character will be softened or worn away. Most likely the process of abrasion will be rough, but when it is over he begins to see btmself as others see him, and not as reflected in the mirror of self conceit, he will be thankful that ho has run the gauntlet, and arrived, though by & rough road, at seif knowledge. Upon the whole, whatever loving mothers may think to the contrary, it is a good thing for youths to he knocked about in the world—it makes men of them. Outrage—l rtitors Mint by n Follccmnn. Tekrk Haute, July (3—This afternoon about two o’clock C. W. Brown ami Major O, Y. Smith, editors anti proprietors of the .Saturday Evening Gazette, were shot by Erwin Serniu, a policeman, under circum stances of the most unprovoked character. Major Smith was returning from his dluuer to the office, and as ho passed the corner of Third aud Main streets, Serulu assaulted him with a billy. Stunned and bewildered by the blow, Smith ran into the middle of tbo street, Sernia following him and dealing him sev eral more blows before he reached the opposite side of the street. By this time Smith succeeded iu drawing his pistol aud attempted tosboot, but missed fire. Sernia then jumped behind a lamp post, and, drawing u large navy rovolver, firod at Smith, who fired at the same time. Sernla’s shot took effect in Smith’s leg. He then started across tho street and mo tioned to Mr. Brown, who had by that time reached the ground, and again drew his revolver and fired at Brown, the shot tak ing effect in his breast, and producing It is feared, a mortal wound. The affair causes the most intense excitement here. 2.50 2.50 ....... 2.50 2.00
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